


Rescue, Winchester Style

by lilsmartass



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brothers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Teenchester, protective!John, protective!Sam, whump!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 15:17:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilsmartass/pseuds/lilsmartass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as a double fill for my Kidnapping Square on my dark bingo card and as an answer to this prompt on hoodie time: I prefer pre-series for this, with a carefree, happy-go-lucky Dean of earlier days...<br/>Dean gets kidnapped. Maybe someone wants revenge on John, or maybe some rich, entitled dude wants to force John to do something for him and orchestrates the kidnapping. Teen!Sam and angry!John are freaking out because their lives just don't work without Dean in them. And meanwhile Dean's all tied up and blindfolded and trying very hard not to be scared. Bonus points if the kidnappers start sending pictures/videos of Dean being tortured to encourage John to get a move on. (I'm especially picturing a scene where they tear Dean's shirt open at the back and whip him!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: R  
> Disclaimer: All belongs to someone else.  
> Warning/Spoilers: violence, torture, violence against a minor, angry!John, profanity (lots of).  
> Genre: hurt/comfort, whump!Dean, teen!chesters, protective!John, protective!Sam  
> A/N: Hope the OP is happy with this fill, I couldn’t really get Sam and John to fight during this, they were both too worried about Dean.

It was still dark when the hand on Sam’s shoulder woke him. “Cut it out Dean,” he muttered, rolling over onto his side.

“Sam,” said his dad’s voice.

That dragged him the rest of the way out of sleep instantly, “Dad, it’s four thirty. Normal teenagers get to sleep in on a Saturday; I’m getting up at six for training. I’m damn sure not getting up until then.” He cringed slightly as his brain caught up with his mouth and he realised what he had just said. Dad would add punishment PT for his tone for sure. But uncharacteristically, John said nothing, not even the usual low voiced warning Sam got when he was in an exceptionally good mood. The lack was enough to shock him out of unburrowing from the blankets, “What is it?” he asked, sitting upright and squinting at his dad in the darkness.

“Where’s your brother?” John asked in the even voice of one striving for calm.

Sam cast his mind back over the last evening, “Dunno, I’m not his keeper.”

John’s expression tightened. “The Impala’s outside, he’s not in it. So where is he?”

Hearing that the Impala was here changed things considerably and Sam felt his pulse quicken. “He had a date,” he admitted reluctantly, Dean had asked Sam to cover for him if he slipped out for just a couple of hours, but a glance at the clock told Sam he should have been back hours ago, and, in the life they led, brotherly loyalty had to come second to safety. John’s expression tightened and Sam hastened on, “It was just for a couple of hours, he should have been back by eleven. I would’ve waited up for him-”

“I know that cold medicine you’re taking knocks you on your ass,” said John. “You know which girl? Where he was taking her?”

“Some blond,” Sam said, his own expression mimicking his father’s as he wracked his brains for information, “but he must have been back since. He definitely took the car, and Dean doesn’t take girls to the movies, he takes girls to secluded spots and,” Sam made an indistinct gesture but John didn’t laugh, if anything his expression grew grimmer.

“But you haven’t seen him?” Sam shook his head, and John let out a low angry noise, “Fuck!” he growled.

“What is it?” Sam asked.

In answer John shoved a piece of paper at him. It was generic notebook paper, the kind that could be bought in any store. In biro, someone had written, with loopy, curving letters, “Let’s reopen negotiations. D.”

“What does it mean,” Sam asked blankly.

“This guy sells supernatural objects to the highest bidder,” John growled. “A while back he asked me about a curse box, but what’s in it is really dangerous, far too dangerous to release onto an open market, so I told him I couldn’t help him, not even for the money he was offering.” John shifted, ran a hand through his hair, “It’s a profitable business, what he does. He can buy almost anything he wants; he’s used to getting his own way.”

“You think he’s got Dean,” Sam finished.

John didn’t answer. Instead he stood, and paced, his fists clenching and unclenching rhythmically. “If he’s just out with some girl-”

“Not if the car’s here,” Sam defended, “And he’d never leave me alone until this time.” It was true, though Dean’s over protectiveness made Sam went to kill him at times, it was as predictable as the rise and set of the sun. No girl would have usurped the fact that Sam was in the room alone, and drugged on flu medicine in Dean’s mind. Sam got up, all thoughts of sleep banished from his mind. “We have to find him.”

*

Dean struggled hard against the two men who held him, but they were bigger and stronger than he was at eighteen and still growing into his body and the way they were holding him prevented him from using any of his fighting skills to get at them, he was down to using sheer muscle. He couldn’t even get his feet up for a kick, the bastards had tied his ankles together, forcing him to shuffle awkwardly and trust to their strength when he stumbled. He cursed a long, fluid stream of words that would make a marine blush, he knew, John’s face when he’d first heard some of the words Dean knew had been priceless, and turned his head from side to side, trying to at least dislodge the blindfold. But nothing.

His knuckles ached from the desperate fight he had put up from where they had dragged him out of the car outside Kirby Stiles’ house – _The car! Shit, I wasn’t even supposed to be driving her, dad will kill me if they’ve stolen it_ – and the pains blooming on random parts of his body told him he was developing some colourful bruises. He stumbled again as they started down a flight of stairs and cried out as he came clean off his feet. The extra weight didn’t seem to affect the guys dragging him at all. They just continued moving forward, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they were carrying him.

Dean hissed furiously, and swore some more, and then they were at the bottom of the flight of stairs and a single sharp turn to the left into what Dean assumed was a room, and they stopped abruptly. “This is him?” a cold voice asked.

Dean turned his face in the direction of the speaker’s voice, interrupting as one of the men behind him began to answer, “Yep, I’m me.” He smiled cockily. “Didn’t get your name though?”

“He doesn’t look like John,” the speaker said, ignoring Dean completely. “You’re sure?”

“He was in the car,” said one of the men behind him in a rumbling voice.

Dean felt a stir of adrenaline in his stomach. This wasn’t an opportunistic action then, it was planned, aimed at dad. Dean wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad but he couldn’t keep himself from asking, “What do you want with my dad?”

The voice laughed, cold and menacing and a cold hand shot out caress the side of Dean’s face. Dean jerked back, slamming into one of the men behind him hard enough to make him groan and snarled low in his throat like one of Bobby’s dogs. The laugh sounded again, but the hand drew back. “I’m an old business partner of John’s. You’re here to help me with some tricky negotiations.”

 _Blackmail_. Dean’s stomach turned. He really didn’t like the idea of being this man’s leverage against his family, but he widened his cocky smirk and said, “My dad is going to kill you. Assuming of course I don’t get there first.”

His words didn’t cause a reaction which was never good; it meant he was dealing with focussed professionals who wouldn’t be swayed. “So which one are you? Dean or Sam?” the voice asked.

The curl in Dean’s stomach tightened that the man knew so much about them. “Still didn’t get your name,” he sneered instead of answering.

The fist to the gut would have doubled him over had he not been being held upright and he wheezed as it forced all the air in his body out of him. “You should keep a civil tongue in your head when talking to your elders and betters _boy_. Now, Dean or Sam?”

“Dean,” Dean answered grudgingly.

“Was that really so hard. I’m Dalton by the way.” The cold hand shot out again, and someone twined fingers in his hair to pull his head back so Dalton could fumble at the knot of the blindfold.

Dean blinked in the dim light and looked around him. Stone walls, no windows, clearly underground, he was clearly in a makeshift dungeon. He turned back to Dalton, taking in the appearance of a man who enjoyed his comforts a little too much and regarded him with an impassive smirk. “Like what you’ve done with the place.”

Dalton’s cruel smirk widened and he lifted his own hand once more. Dean couldn’t help the flinch, certain he was about to be struck again and powerless to do anything about it. Instead, Dalton gestured to one of the dark corners of the room and said, “Tie him there.”

Dean was manhandled to where Dalton had indicated and forced down onto his knees. There was a thick metal ring set in the floor and one of them looked a thick chain through the cuffs he already wore and secured him to it. Dean struggled desperately, but to no avail and as soon as he was attached to the ring his assailants moved back. The chain prevented him from standing, or even really moving and his arms were still cuffed behind him so he had almost no hope of picking them. “Where’re your friends?” he sneered at the men who had bound him, because he knew at least four had attacked him and yet, but for him and Dalton these men were alone.

They didn’t answer, their faces stayed as still as if they were carved from stone, though Dean was pleased to note a split lip on one and a rapidly swelling black eye on the other. “We’ll be back when you can keep a civil tongue in your head,” said Dalton and ushered the two men out the room ahead of him before turning out the light and leaving as well. In the absolute blackness of the room, the clunk of the door lock seemed very loud.

“Fuck!” Dean muttered helplessly.  


	2. Chapter 2

Usually, John’s information-on-a-need-to-know-basis-only routine annoyed Sam. Today, it was making him come as close as he ever had to attempting to beat it out of him. Only the certain knowledge that John would have no qualms brutally putting him down if he tried was keeping him still, but it was a hard won battle, and his bottom lip was all but bitten through as he tried again. “I _do_ need to know everything you know about him dad, if I’m going to help you find Dean.”

John shook his head, he looked like he was straining to keep his cool too, but neither of them wanted to waste precious time on a screaming match. “He’s a bad son of a bitch Sammy; I don’t want you anywhere near him. He’ll contact us.”

“And until then we just wait here and eat pie while he does God knows what to Dean?” Sam spat.

John’s face turned almost purple with restrained tension, “We have no choice. If we run off half cocked we will at best be wasting our time and resources, and more likely be tipping our hand. You checked the parking lot, there was no sign of a struggle, or of Dean. Which means, either he was taken out instantly and silently, and I’d be surprised if anything human could do that, or he was taken somewhere else entirely and someone else brought the car back _which means they know where we are_.”

Sam cringed a little at that, but even if it were true, he understood why they couldn’t move, and he wasn’t about to let it stop him, “But Dean’s in danger!” he shouted back.

“I KNOW! Believe me Sammy, I know, but it doesn’t do him any good to put you into danger too.”

“ _Now_ you care about protecting me? You used me as bait for that werewolf, but now-”

The phone rang, and Sam dropped instantly into silence. John snatched it up, almost fumbling it in his haste to get it to his ear. “Hello?” he demanded into it. There was a tense silence as he listened to whoever was on the other end. Sam strained his ears but could hear nothing but the low buzzing of the other man’s talking. A muscle twitched spasmodically in John’s jaw and he bit out, “Let my son go Dalton and we’ll talk.” There was more low buzzing, the man’s – Dalton’s – voice hadn’t changed, it stayed in the same low register. Sam watched his dad’s eyes flutter shut, a sure tell that he was hiding emotion and he swallowed before he turned his back on Sam to growl, “If you hurt him-” into the receiver.

Sam picked up the higher tone of a suddenly dead line just a moment before John threw the handset across the room where it cracked into the wall. “Damn him!” he shouted.

Sam bent to pick up the cell, pushing a few buttons to be sure it still worked, it was after all, their only link with Dean. “What does he want?”

“The box, I told you.”

“Well, give it to him. We can always steal it back later.”

John almost smiled at the naive innocence of his son’s easy plan, if only it were that simple. “It’s not that easy Sammy. What’s in the box...it could take out half of the state, just with a thought. I _can’t_ give it to a man like Dalton. I can’t.”

Sam bit back the angry words he wanted to say until blood filled his mouth. He might be furious that his dad could make such a decision so coldly, but he understood. He even agreed, much as he didn’t want to. “Then we have to find Dean.”

John nodded. “And fast.”

He didn’t elaborate, but Sam’s gut still clenched, they were obviously working to some sort of time limit which Dean would be punished for them refusing to follow. “Yes sir,” he said, and refused to acknowledge the surprised, pleased look John gave him. He didn’t ignore orders _that_ often.

*

Dean couldn’t help the tiny noise of relief he let out when the door opened. He had no idea how long he’d already been down here, but it was long enough quite frankly. At least Dalton turning on the light sent the rats skittering away from him with annoyed shrieks. Dean tipped his face up to face Dalton as the man stalked nearer, growling low in his throat, with fury and frustration at being unable to reach his feet. “Thirsty Dean?” Dalton asked, holding out a cup of water.

Dean eyed the vicious smirk on the man’s face. His own face was still defiant, if drawn and pale, and he groped for his usual smirk. “You gonna untie me?”

Dalton shook his head sorrowfully. I don’t think you can be trusted with that yet.”

Dean turned his face away. He wasn’t about to permit this man to feed him like a baby. He wasn’t that thirsty anyway, and he really had no intention of pissing himself so it was probably best if he kept his fluid intake down. “I’m fine,” he bit out. Dalton crouched in front of him, and Dean stilled the instinctive recoil his body sought to make. He hadn’t liked being forced to kneel in front of him, but he liked his proximity even less. At this distance he could smell the sticky sweetness of Dalton’s breath and it occurred to him to wonder if he wasn’t human. “Christo,” he whispered.

Dalton merely laughed and cupped his chin in one hand. “Not possessed Dean, just driven. Now, tell me, I still haven’t heard from daddy yet. Why is that?”

“Because he doesn’t deal with shithole asswipes like you?”

The slap rocked his head back. “You’re funny Dean. But I want an answer, taking you doesn’t seem to have been enough motivation, think I should try something stronger?”

Dean shrugged, “Do what you want. My dad’ll never give in to you and if you hurt me, you’ll be lucky if all he does is kill you.”

Dalton’s smile widened. “That faith you have? It must’ve come from somewhere. Has daddy rescued you before Dean, are you used to being the damsel in distress.”

Dean mustered up what was in his mouth and spit in the man’s face. Dalton’s face darkened with fury and he lurched back, standing as he wiped the glob of saliva away. A vicious kick to Dean’s side broke at least two ribs, Dean felt them crack, and he curled over, wheezing. His smirk never dimmed though. “You kick like a girl,” he sneered through bloodied lips.

For a moment he thought that the fury building on Dalton’s face was going to overflow, and he braced himself to with stand the beating he was sure was coming, but instead, Dalton reined in his anger with what looked like a superhuman effort of will. He strode to the door and for a second the awful panic that he was going to go and leave him in the dark for the rats again filled Dean’s head, but he merely barked some orders into the hallway and two more men, different ones from before entered. The two of them, and the pain of his broken ribs, were enough to subdue him as they forced him roughly to his feet, resettled his hands in front of him and bound him to a similar ring set high on the wall. “Be careful with the merchandise,” he huffed as one pushed him viciously into position, and strained to see behind him.

A sharp CRACK froze the blood in his veins. “Let’s see if this’ll break through some of that famed Winchester stubbornness,” came Dalton’s furious drawl.

Craning his neck as far to the side as he could manage, Dean could just make out a video camera, set precariously on a tripod next to him. He had a sinking feeling it wasn’t his stubbornness they were trying to break. “That was my favourite shirt,” he tried to joke as someone ripped his Led Zeppelin T-shirt down the back so the plains of smooth muscle were exposed. His heart was beating too fast for him to be effective at nonchalant sarcasm though. _This is gonna hurt, this is really really gonna hurt,_ he told himself, screwing his eyes shut and waiting for the blow.

Even his preparation and determination didn’t stop a scream being ripped out of him when it landed.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Twelve hours later they were no closer to finding Dean. Sam was taping away at the computer, having finally hacked into the city’s housing records and ignoring his dad’s low level swearing as he did whatever it was he was doing by the bed. He stifled yet another cough, and blinked heavily. His cold wasn’t incapacitating, and he’d skipped taking his medicine that day, knowing it would make him fall asleep. When a sneeze escaped him John looked up appraisingly. Sam pretended he couldn’t feel the gaze boring into the back of his head and simply muttered, “I’m fine,” as he mopped at his nose with an already sodden tissue. He couldn’t keep from a small moan though as John dropped a cool hand on the back of his too hot neck.

“Sammy,” his dad began, but they both turned at the sharp knock on the door.

John drew a side arm and motioned Sam to get behind him. Sam grimaced, but did as he was told, picking up his own gun from the table and checking it was loaded with a habitual snap as he did so. He fell into position, making sure his gun would point at whoever was there’s head, as John pulled back the door.

Nothing.

Sam blinked his surprise, until his gaze fell on a dirty package lying in front of the entrance. “Get that inside, don’t open it. They can’t be far,” John rapped out and stepped out into the dusty outside of the motel. From the way his gaze flickered, Sam could tell he saw nothing immediately and his shoulders winced tighter together as he was obliged to start a grid search, gun still drawn. For his part, Sam stood and stared at the package on the ground for a long minute before tapping it carefully with the side of his shoe. Logically, he knew Dalton had nothing to gain by dropping a bomb outside their motel room, but it always paid to be cautious. Finally deciding that there was nothing dangerous inside he picked it up and dropped it on the table. Then he shut and relocked the door, dad would give the signal when he returned. He paced for a moment, waiting for just that, but nothing happened and Sam’s eye fell on the package once more.

He picked it up, turned it over in his hands. On the back, in the same curvaceous writing as on the note left on the Impala was a phone number and the words, “For when you’re ready to deal. D.” He licked his lips nervously, the sudden surge of adrenaline increasing the pounding behind his eyes. A wave of emotion, composed half of desperation to know what was on the tape and half of the certainty that Dean would never want him to watch this, hit him hard enough to make him stumble back a step.

 _Don’t open it_ the words beat through his head, but he had to do something. Without stopping to think, Sam picked up a knife and carefully sliced the brown paper, making sure the all-important phone number was undamaged. A VHS fell out. For a second Sam looked at it, but this motel was better than a lot of the ones they stayed at it and, buried under a pile of paper was a TV with an attached video machine. Within seconds, Sam had everything switched aside and the video in the machine. The TV crackled to life. Dean was there, bound to a wall. There was a mousy, spiteful looking man behind him wielding a whip in a way which made him look more dangerous than Indiana Jones had ever done. There were two other men in the room, one standing by the door and the other ripping Dean’s dirty t-shirt down the back. “This is my favourite shirt,” he heard his brother’s voice, but under the sarcasm was breathless fear.

Dalton only laughed and turned away from where he was testing the whip and his aim by flicking it against a different wall in the room. There was a CRACK as he flicked it t Dean, a second of silence, and then Dean _screamed_. Sam’s knees felt weak. He had never heard his brother make that sound before, not even when he’d been stabbed. The second lash came hard on the heels of the first and Dean was pressed against the stone now, trying to get as far as possible from that vicious tail, but able to do exactly nothing bound as he was.

There was the distinctive whistling sound of the whip being brought back, “Don’t!” Dean cried.

Sam shut his eyes, knowing Dalton would ignore him and bring the whip down against his brother’s unprotected back anyway, Instead the man lowered the whip slightly and said, “Look at the camera and say ‘Daddy, please give him whatever he wants’ and I’ll stop.”

Dean took a ragged breath and leaned his forehead back against the stone. “Fuck you,” he rasped.

Dalton didn’t even wait and threaten again, just swung his arm forward. This blow was obviously harder than the others because blood began to seep almost instantly from the welt it raised. Sam almost couldn’t see through the boiling fury, this man was _cutting his brother open with a whip_. Sam was going to _destroy_ him, break him into little pieces and burn them until there was nothing left. Each one of Dean’s breathless screams was like a knife in his soul, but it was the wet gasp and the broken, “Stop!” and the all to obvious glint of tears on Dean’s face that made his heart actually stop.

Sam leaned closer to the screen, as if he could stop Dalton from here, as if he could offer Dean comfort by touching his image. He moaned low and deep, the sound hidden by yet another high, ragged scream as the whip came down again, Dalton seemingly able to keep going forever.

Dean’s back was nothing but a mass of welts now, each one raised and raw, and more than half seeping blood. He was sobbing, helpless against the onslaught of pain and still gasping out invectives and curse words.

“Turn it off,” said a gravelly voice and Sam jumped. His dad was standing there; Sam hadn’t even heard him pick the lock, so engrossed had he been. He swiped at his cheeks, only now are that they were wet, and picked himself up from the dirty carpet where he had crumbled, unable to stand as he had listened to Dean’s echoing screams.

“Damn cold,” he sniffled. “We have to find him dad. We have to find him _now_.”

John wasn’t crying, but Sam thought his expression might have been less terrible if he was. He looked empty, as though something vital had been torn out from inside him, and he also looked as though he were going to kill what had made him feel that way. Bloodily. “We will,” he promised, an arm reaching to the side and dragging a second person into the room. “This is the guy who dropped off the video; he’s going to tell us where it was filmed. Aren’t you?” John snarled, dropping his hapless captive on the floor.

The man stood, he was a full head shorter than John, but wide and well muscled. His thinning mousey hair fell into a face marred with bruises and scratches. “I-” he began, sounding very hard like he was trying to be defiant.

John held up a quelling hand. “”Before we get to the gritted, I’m-not-telling-you-anything bit of this, let me tell _you_ ,” he jabbed a finger sharply into the man’s chest to emphasise his words, “that’s _my boy_ I just watched your boss torturing. So I have no incentive to take it easy on you. I don’t care what kind of damage I do you. I just care that I get the information I need as quickly as possible. Do you understand?”

“He’ll kill me,” the man protested.

John smiled nastily, “So will I. But I’m here now and he isn’t. And if you tell me what I want to know, I’ll put a bullet in him for you.”

The man looked undecided, but Sam recognised the expression on his dad’s face. That look said clearly that John had reached the end of his always limited patience. He pushed him back into the chair Sam had been sitting in earlier. “Sam, duct tape,” he barked.

Sam passed it to him. After what he had just seen he didn’t exactly feel guilty about what his dad was planning to do, but it made him decidedly uncomfortable to watch it. He had always known his dad hunted monsters; it made him uneasy to watch him apply those same skills of brutality to humans. John took a look at him, as he finished tying his captive’s legs to the legs of the chair. “Take a walk Sammy,” he said, his voice not losing the hard edge, but his eyes softening a little. “Go and get some ice-cream for your throat or something.”

Sam shook his head, deciding at that moment that, however unpleasant, he had to do whatever he could to help Dean. “No sir, I’m fine.”

John looked at him, lips tightening further as he glanced over his son’s obviously fever drawn features. It occurred to him suddenly what Mary would say if she knew he was about to torture a man to protect one of their sons in front of the other, but he couldn’t help the twist of pride at the determined strength in Sam’s gaze anyway. “Alright then,” he said calmly. When he turned back to the tied and terrified man in the chair, the dark fury was back in his face. “Where is he?” he asked. The man shook his head mutely. John angled his body slightly so most of what he was doing was hidden from Sam, and then drew his boot knife.

Sam jerked as the man suddenly screamed.

*

It was cold down here with nothing but a ruined shirt. Dean struggled to find a comfortable position with his back ripped to shreds and his body bound wrists to ankles so he was folded like a pretzel, but the slight movement dragged a pitiful whimper from him anyway. The pain had mostly taken his mind off the fact that he once again alone with nothing but rats that he couldn’t see at least. Unbidden, and at least this time, unobserved, a couple of tears slid from under his tightly closed lids. Fuck, how had he gotten himself in this situation? _Next time dad tells me to stay home I will_ , he promised himself, semi delirious with the pain. _At least I was out with Kirby, not with Sam_. He didn’t know what he’d do if it was Sammy here.

Shit he was thirsty. He should have swallowed his damn pride and taken Dalton’s offer of water. Too late now, he ran his dry tongue over lips cracked from screaming. He wished dad would come. He knew he’d be looking for him, knew he’d stop at nothing, particularly if Dalton really had signed his own death warrant by sending John that tape. Not that that didn’t make his cheeks grow hot all by itself. If it got him out of this hellhole he’d live with it but he wished his dad, and most likely Sammy as well, weren’t going to get to watch him screaming and fucking crying like a pussy. And he wished dad was here now.

He tried again to pull at the chains, but he doubted he could break them even if he could flex his muscles without the pain of his ruined skin threatening to make him pass out. He couldn’t get at his picks, even if he didn’t think they were gone from the too professional search he’d been subject to which had stripped him of his weapons, and even if he thought he might be able to unpick them in this position. _Gonna practice_ he thought hazily. _This is never fucking happening again._

He flinched as a wet nose and a brush of whiskers nosed him and jerked, ignoring the bright lance of agony. “Go away,” he shouted. It worked and with a startled squeak the rat left. It wouldn’t work forever though. Rats were smart, eventually they’d realise he was helpless. _Dad you need to get here before then, you really really do_ Dean thought. He felt a few more tears that it was too hard to keep a hold of escape and his tongue automatically flicked out to lap up the bitter moisture as it tracked down his face. _C’mon dad_ , he thought again, hissing ineffectually at yet another rat, _please_.

 


	4. Chapter 4

“Fourteen Woodhouse Crescent,” the man suddenly gasped as the knife rose again. “Dalton’s using the basement there, the place belongs to a client, let’s him use it sometime.”

Sam breathed his own sigh of relief. “So that’s it then, that’s where we go?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I should make sure he’s telling the truth,” John said, not lowering the blade.

The man closed his eyes, “no no no please, I swear I’m telling the truth. I swear it. Don’t please don’t no-”

John stood, picking up a rag to wash the blood off. He looked Sam over. His youngest looked as bad as he felt, and John had his own hands knotted tightly into fists to hide the shaking. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for his boys but he offered up a prayer to a god he no longer even believed in that he wouldn’t be forced to do that again. He forced his breathing back into an even register, his heart cracking a little at the look of not-quite-hidden fear in the depths of Sam’s eyes. “OK,” he said, after standing and thinking for a moment. “OK, I’ve got a plan.”

Sam got to his feet as swiftly as if his own inactivity was causing him physical pain and didn’t even seem to notice the fact that he was swaying on his feet. “What do we do?” he demanded, more eager than he had been on a hunt in years.

“You take your medicine and get some damn sleep.”

“Don’t be stupid. I’m coming with you.”

After what he had been through, what he had done, and the certain knowledge of the nightmares that would follow, John had no time for Sam’s teenage antics. He had had every intention of explaining his plan to Sam, he needed him, he just needed him well-rested first, but in the face of his insubordination – _a problem I never have with Dean_ , a treacherous part of his mind noted, - he simply snarled, “You’ll do as I say if you even want me to consider you as being ready to do this.”

Sam gritted his teeth and set his jaw, and for a moment John felt guilt for turning the obvious desperate worry Sam held for his brother into a flaw. But then Sam’s hazel eyes flickered shut under the weight of his headache and his deep indrawn breath rattled with the mucus in his sinuses. “You swear you’ll wake me. You won’t just take off.”

John gritted his own teeth at the insolent tone of the demand, his face a mirror of his son’s stubborn expression, but Sam was trying, the least he could do was reassure the kid. “Yes,” he said, aware that he sounded less than sincere through his clenched teeth.

Sam’s resources were obviously at an end though because he reached blindly for the cold medicine and took a slurp straight from the bottle. “Swear you’ll wake me,” he repeated, climbing onto the bed, still fully dressed.

John wanted to go to him, make sure he was settled properly, chastise him for not taking the medicine in correct doses, make sure at least one of his children was safe, but a low noise from the man behind him distracted him and reminded him that Sam only had a cold whereas Dean was suffering under that madman’s whip and with nothing more than a second muttered, “Yes,” he turned away, and covered the distance back to his captive.

His eyes widened in unadulterated fear as John drew nearer. “I told you, I told you,” he babbled.

“You did,” said John, striving for the hard callous tone of the emotionless hunter persona he wore for dealings like this. “And now I need you to do something else. You’re going to call your boss, and tell him I’m searching for you, want to know who dropped off the tape and that I’ve got you pinned down so you have to stay in hiding, you’ll be back as soon as possible. You understand me?”

“He’ll kill me,” the man whispered.

“Not if I get him first, which I will, and as long as you don’t give him reason to panic and vacate the address you so graciously gave me, I’ll get him long before he has a chance to go after you.” The man nodded, slowly, wide-eyed. John mirrored the movement. “OK then. I’m going to untie one arm and give you your cell OK? You even think about warning him, and it won’t be him you have to worry about.”

Slowly, John did as he had said, and stood with a gun trained on the man while he made his call. Finally he clicked the cell phone off. “It’s done, he doesn’t suspect anything,” he whispered.

“You sure?” John demanded.

The man nodded frantically, eyes still wide, “Yes, yes I swear.”

John clenched his finger over the trigger and the man closed his eyes and began weeping pitifully. He had intended to kill him; tie up the loose end once and for all and there was nothing he wouldn’t do to protect Dean but...but...

Sam shifted in uneasy sleep as the man’s sobs grew louder.

John sighed. He couldn’t kill a man in cold blood, much as he might like to. He lowered the gun, and then raised it again to strike the man sharply on the side of the head, knocking him out cold. They could hold him until that night, by then, Dean’d be rescued, and they’d be back on the road.

*

It was dark when Sam woke up. “Dad?” he questioned sharply, obviously expecting to hear nothing.

“I’m here,” said John, and Sam rolled over to see him. He was at the table, obsessively cleaning the weapons. He was settled in the chair which didn’t have their still blood drenched, bound and newly gagged captive tied to it. Sam struggled into an upright position. “Why did you let me sleep so long?”

“No point in taking you in to a battle when you can hardly stand.”

“ _Dad_! I’m fine. Dean needs us.”

“Dean’s strong,” John insisted, sounding like he was trying to convince himself.

Sam huffed his disagreement and disapproval, but rolled to his feet nevertheless. “What’s the plan?” he demanded.

John turned away from the weapons, though he kept idly sharpening a knife as he talked. “You call the number Dalton left with that video. Tell him you’re ready to deal.” John closed his eyes, visibly fighting with himself, hating the plan. “There’s a construction site, only a few blocks from his house and not too far from here. Tell him you’ll meet him there but it has to wait until you’re sure I’m asleep. You’ll be there when you can, sometime after midnight.” Sam nodded slowly, waiting for his dad to continue. “We’ll wait until he arrives, scope out what’s going on and the either, he’ll have Dean with him or he won’t.”

“He _won’t_?” Sam said, “But I thought he wanted the box and Dean was his leverage.”

John nodded grimly, “And he wouldn’t dare double cross me. But you? He might decide he’ll get the box off of you and demand something else from me. That’s the best outcome actually.”

“How?”

“If he’s not got Dean, you can go in and try to trade with him. I’ve made you up a fake box. It’s not perfect but it’s the best I could do from the sketches in the journal. All you’ve got to do is keep him talking, and that’s your specialty Sammy.” Sam made a face which John ignored, “I’ll race up to the house, get Dean and we’ll come back for you with the car.”

“And if he does have Dean?”

“He won’t, he’s a scheming, greedy, bastard, but if he does, you go in and deal. With luck he’ll fall for the box and we can go home, and if he doesn’t, I’ll have a sniper’s position on him ready.”

Sam had to admit it sounded like a good plan. Of course, the thing with the werewolf had sounded like a good plan and he’d nearly got mauled. But this was different. This was Dean. “OK,” he said steadily, “Give me the phone.”

John held it out, but didn’t relinquish it. “You sure Sammy?”

Sam swallowed, “Do I have a choice?”

“If you don’t want to-”

“I want to help Dean.”

“Alright then,” said John softly and released the phone into his grasp.

*

The sound of the ringing phone dragged Dean out of the haze of pain endorphins the pressure of Dalton’s boot against his already broken ribs had bought him. He struggled to focus: _When captured anything you can learn about your opponent can be_ useful, he heard his father’s voice, but it was hard. His gaze flicked longingly to the cup of cold water Dalton had been drinking from and had set down sometime earlier. At this point, Dean was more than ready to say dignity be damned if it would buy him a few swallows and knowing how ridiculous he’d look trying to lap a little water from a cup with his arms tied behind him was no longer the deterrent it had been yesterday. But he knew he couldn’t stand, which meant he couldn’t reach the water on the high table. He shut his eyes, forcing himself to stop thinking about it, and tried to force back the pain in his head to listen to what Dalton was saying.

“Who is this?” he was demanding into the phone, and then his smile broadened at whatever the answer was. He listened for a moment before agreeing to whatever the other person said with a laugh. _He’s cheating you_ , Dean thought at whoever was on the other end, the gleeful smile on Dalton’s face making it obvious to him that whatever Dalton had just agreed to, he wasn’t going to honour. But he had no intention of wrecking his already dry throat further to call out. Anyone who wanted to do business with a scumbag like that deserved to be cheated as far as Dean was concerned. Though maybe that was the raw, still seeping welts on his back talking. He watched Dalton put the phone down, smirk firmly in place. “Well, daddy’s more stubborn than even I gave him credit, but little Sammy’s going to come through for you.”

Dean spat a mouthful of blood and hauled himself up to his knees, unable to even attempt his feet. _Wait? That had been Sammy? Fuck fuck double fuck_ “You leave him alone,” he hissed, low and deadly and knowing that he couldn’t do a good job of threatening anyone in this position. _What wouldn’t I give for a gun in my hand?_

Dalton laughed, and Dean tensed in preparation for another vicious kick, the usual response to his outbursts. Instead he crouched in front of Dean, cupping his face with one hand and thumbing away the blood tricking from his mouth with the other. “How about I take him too? Give daddy two reasons to find whatever treasure I want next.”

“I’ll kill you.”

Dalton snorted, “Please Dean, you can’t even defend yourself. And if you can’t be polite I’ll leave you down here in the dark again.”

“Go ahead,” the boy sneered, “The rats are better company than you,” but Dalton could see the fear in his luminous eyes.

Dalton stood, and made as if to leave. He could feel the boy’s eyes burning holes in his back, but he didn’t move, didn’t say anything. _Little bastard really will let me leave him in the dark again before he asks me not to turn the light off_ , Dalton thought, almost admiringly as his hand reached out to cover the switch set too high on the wall for Dean to reach in his bound condition. The tension sharpened and still the boy said nothing. “I can’t wait to find out if your brother is as strong as you,” he said, almost to himself.

“Don’t hurt him,” Dean ground out, then, face flaming with what the word cost him, he added, “ _Please_.”

Dalton smirked at the capitulation, and turned off the light.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Sam and John inched on their bellies through the tall fronds of dewy grass on the outskirts of the construction site. John handed Sam the binoculars. “Do you see them?” he breathed.

Sam peered through the lenses and scanned the area. “The man in the centre is Dalton?”

John nodded once.

“I see him, and three others. No Dean, no vehicle.”

John nodded again. “That’s what I count too. You got the box?”

Sam clutched it close to his chest and muffled a sneeze against his hand, grimacing at the explosion of warm snot over cold skin.

“Give me,” John looked over his shoulder, back towards the car, “ten minutes. I mean it Sam, ten minutes. I don’t want you on your own with him longer than necessary. Then you go in. Make sure you go through the side gate. That’s the way you’d enter if you’d come straight from the motel and were trying to stay off the roads.”

“Yes sir,” Sam muttered, the adrenaline of battle washing away any possible irritation he may have felt at the repeat of what, back at the motel, he had insisted were over cautious instructions.

John eyed him, “You sure you’re up to this?”

“Dean needs me,” was the soft simple answer.

This look was fierce and proud and worried all at the same time. “You got your gun?”

“Yes sir.”

“Alright, ten minutes. And keep him talking.”

“Yes sir,” and with a last, lingering look at his brave, stubborn boy, John was inching backwards again until he was far enough back that he could stand without casting a telling silhouette over the site and running hell for leather for the car with a sprinter’s burst of speed instead of the loping, energy conserving trot he usually used. Sam watched him until he was out of sight, and then glanced down at his watch. _01:17_ blinked the little red digits, and Sam muffled another sneeze and a sound of misery from the tightness in his chest not being aided by lying in this wet grass. Then he began slowly edging his way around to the dirt road that led up to the gate his dad had picked for his entry.

*

John drove as fast as was physically possible, flooring the accelerator on his girl. Sam would never wait ten whole minutes. He was too impatient, too anxious to be doing something, too inexperienced to see that sometimes waiting, not action, was best and that all meant was that John had to be quicker than his projected time. There was one man at the house when John drew up outside it, stopping so suddenly the Impala went into a fishtail spin, and John shot him, without remorse before he was even out of the car. He slammed the door behind him, he really _really_ didn’t have time for the ‘Pala to get stolen tonight and slipped into the house.

He hadn’t exactly been quiet on his arrival and no one but the man he had shot had come out to meet him so John was pretty sure there was no one else there. He still gave the darkened hallway and the rooms he passed a cursory sweep, but headed for the basement with hurried motions. The locked door led into a dark room and as he forced it open sending a knife sharp wedge of light across the floor there was a heartrending whimper from inside, a tone he hadn’t even known Dean could make. He felt his jaw clench with fury.

“Dean?” he said softly. “Dean-o? I’m here.”

“Dad?” breathed his son’s voice, and he sounded so relieved and grateful that John wanted to strangle Dalton just for the pleasure of feeling the bastard’s life seep out from between his fingers. “Dad...he’s here. He...”

“He’s not here Dean, just us. Where’s the light?”

“Up...by the door, left side. High.”

John ran his fingers over crude stone walls and flicked the switch. The powerful bulb meant he had to squinch his eyes against the light and Dean made another pained noise. When John opened his eyes, the sight made him want to invent whole new torturers just to put Dalton through. Dean was bound, wrists behind his back, wrists to ankles, curled helplessly on one side. His face was marred with the obvious signs of a recent beating, fresh blood still ran down his chin and had been doing so for a while judging by the dried tracks. His breathing spoke of broken ribs and the scurrying brown creature John had barely seen the tail end of told him there had been rats down here, exploring his son’s defenceless form. His clothing was ripped, shirt barely held together by a few treads, worst though, were his eyes. They were wide with pain and fear and terrible gratitude that John had come for him and they lowered as John looked at him, as he tried to hide his emotions from his father.

“I’m sorry dad, I’m so sorry. Shouldn’t’a let them get me, but they came out of nowhere...”

“It’s ok,” John soothed, crossing to Dean’s shaking form and pulling out his lock picks to start work on the cuffs. “Debriefing later, out of here now.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, shakily.

“How many guys does Dalton have Dean?” John asked as he worked, because he had to know.

Dean’s hands released he pulled them forwards with a hiss as his shoulders protested the movement and began to rub the badly chaffed wrists. “Five that I’ve seen.”

For a second John’s heart stopped, that still left one to creep up behind him, then he remembered the man he had tortured and left tied and gagged in the motel room and nodded nodded, they probably weren’t in for any more unpleasant surprises then. “Up,” he commanded, when he had finished with Dean’s bonds.

Dean tried. He really did. John could see it in the lines of tension that marked his face, in the sheen of sweat on his body. “Shit,” he hissed, falling back. John grabbed at an arm and hauled him up, hardening his heart at the sound of agony the pull on torn skin produced and at the darkening line of fresh blood soaking one of the obvious stripes in his t-shirt. “Shit dad, wait,” Dean moaned. It was as close to a plea as John had ever heard from his son’s mouth and it broke him a little to know that he was the one causing it.

“Sorry Dean-o,” he breathed, inexorably pulling Dean to his feet. “I am so sorry, you have no idea. But Sammy’s playing distraction for us. We gotta go.” But he let Dean sag for a second against his side in the closest thing to a hug Dean would likely accept even in this state, and brushed away his tears with a matter of fact, but gentle hand, praying that he wasn’t making any of Dean’s injuries worse even if he was hurting him enough to make him cry.

Dean froze, bit back another whimper and gathered himself enough to focus a glare on John and spit, “You shoulda fucking left me here, not given Sammy to him.”

John ignored the vicious tone. Anger was good. Anger would get Dean up and moving and burn away the hurt. And if he had had _any_ way of keeping Sam away from Dalton...“We’ll go get him, come on. But quick, he needs us,” and yeah, it was low to strike at Dean’s weakest point, but John needed to be moving. The pull to be back with Sammy felt like it was tearing him apart. _Dammit, this is why most families have two parents_. His heart was beating double time as he half carried, half dragged Dean out to the car, and the icy fear in his mouth for Sammy didn’t leave much room for the guilt he knew should be there for the screams Dean was swallowing.

He forced himself to take a minute, to settle Dean properly in the car. “You dying?” he asked.

Dean understood the rough question for the apology it was and said, “No, bleeding’s not life threatening, no infection, no internal injuries. Get to Sam.” Then he blinked his eyes open and said, “Water. Please.”

John unscrewed the cap like he had when the boys were kids, knowing Dean’s shaking hands probably couldn’t do it and refusing to humiliate him by making him ask, and thrust the bottle at Dean. He waited while Dean took a dozen deep, slow swallows and then said, “That’s enough.”

Dean grimaced, but didn’t argue. “Drive,” he ordered softly.

John didn’t need told again. He spun the car out of the driveway, gravel spraying up in her wake. _01:35_ read the dashboard clock, as John sped northwards, back to the construction site, praying Sam was still OK.

*    

At 01:25 Sam decided eight minutes was close enough to ten and began making his way up the track. He kept to the shadows, ducking out of the obvious patches of light, trying to look like a kid who was trying to sneak but didn’t really know how. This plan depended on them not seeing him as a threat. By sheer force of will he kept his fingers from curling around the grip of the gun tucked into his waistband. He was met at the gate by Dalton himself. He clutched the box tighter to his chest, and fleetingly wished he’d asked what his dad had done to it. It was heavier than he had expected, and holding it made his fingers strangely numb. If dad hadn’t told him it was a fake, he would have believed it was a powerful device, which meant John had rigged it in some way and he really wished he knew how and if he was supposed to duck and cover if the idiot tried to open it. He made a show of trying to peer around Dalton’s portly form. “Where’s my brother?”

The man simply smiled and gestured Sam through the rusted gate with a courtly gesture Sam had only ever seen used by vampires in late night, black and white b-movies. It raised every one of his hackles to pass the man, to expose his back to him, but he forced himself to do so, unable to keep from tensing for a blow nor for cringing at the low chuckle. “He’s waiting. First I want to be sure you held up your end.”

Inside the shadowy ground of the construction site, Sam felt more exposed than ever. He was now ringed by the three armed and heavily muscled men who had accompanied Dalton, and he had to assume they were the ones who had brought Dean down because he couldn’t imagine foppish fat little Dalton being able to him, but it was the cold tint of Dalton’s eyes and his cruel smirk, not their guns which made Sam’s skin crawl. He held the box up so they could see it, see its basic size and shape and the outline of the runes John had carved into the top, but didn’t hold it out where it might be easily snatched. “I kept my half, now where’s Dean?” he allowed, or more accurately, didn’t worry about failing to mask some of the rising desperation in his voice. If he could goad them into tormenting him about his stupidity, that might buy dad the time he needed.

Dalton’s smirk widened. “We need to check the validity of the goods first,” he said softly.

Sam shook his head. He didn’t step back only because that would expose him to the man behind him. “Uh uh, not until I see my brother.”

“Tough negotiator,” mocked Dalton. “Well, the thing is Sammy, I have your brother which means I am in charge. Now give me the box.”

“You want the box, I want Dean. We’ll-” Sam almost said trade, but at the last moment bit the word back, “swap,” he said instead, knowing it sounded younger. _Not a threat, not a threat_ he thought over and over again, trying to project that thought at the men who surrounded him. “We’ll do it at the same time, like in the movies.”

Sam’s stubbornness seemed to be having much the effect on Dalton that it had on John. The smile, cold though it was, fell off his face and his eyes hardened. “Give me the damn box!”

Sam jumped, and one of the men behind him grabbed for it. Sam took off running. There were places to hide in a construction site, places big, bulky adults couldn’t get into. He raced through the shadows of the half built houses and ducked to steady his shaking breathing – _fucking cold_ – behind a stacked pile of timber in one corner.

“He can’t have gone far.”

“He won’t leave, little idiot still thinks we brought his brother.”

“Search all the corners, kid that size could hide in them shadows just by staying still.”

Sam heard them talking and watched the bright beam of a flashlight coming closer. They were doing a careful, thorough search; they’d see him for sure. He dropped back to his belly and slithered out under the tarp which covered the unfinished back wall. He glanced down at his watch once more. _01:29_. Dad was at the house. He needed another fifteen minutes. Sam could keep hiding for another ten, and then allow himself to get caught so he was in the centre and easily visible for pick up. It would have worked, had Dalton not been standing virtually where he emerged.

He yelped, making an undignified noise and tried to shimmy backwards, but Dalton had his thin hard fingers knotted in the back of Sam’s shirt and was pulling him up like a mother wolf with an errant cub. Sam kicked out hard, and caught him in the knee, but instead of dropping him the man just twisted his fingers tighter. “You little _shit_ ,” he hissed. “I’ve got him,” he called louder and within seconds, Sam was once again surrounded. He knew he wouldn’t get the drop on them again, so with weapons at his back, he had no choice but to surrender.

“Where’s my brother,” he asked again. _Keep them talking, anything so they don’t shoot you before dad gets here to deal with them._ He could feel himself shaking and tried to quell it. Dean wouldn’t be shaking.

Dalton was through playing games. “The box.”

One of the obviously hired men nudged his shoulder blade with the barrel of his rifle. Wordlessly Sam handed over the box.

Dalton ran his fingers over it, an expression of glee playing over his face and for a whole minute, Sam thought he was fooled. Then he turned the box over, and something about the markings on the underside made his expression turn once again as cold as ice. “Where did you get this?”

“Dad’s duffle. He keeps it at the bottom, under the dirty laundry, won’t let Dean and I touch it, but I sneaked it out.”

Dalton nodded, and Sam breathed a sigh of relief. His innocent kid routine had them fooled to some extent then. “Well clearly daddy knew you might turn traitor. This is a fake. Good thing I didn’t bring your worthless brother.”

The rifle was still jammed against his back. Sam bit the inside of his lip to the point of blood to keep from retorting that his brother wasn’t worthless. “I still held up my end. I didn’t know it was fake. I want to see Dean.”

“I want doesn’t get,” the man retorted nastily. “He isn’t here. So, if daddy swapped the boxes where might he have hidden the real one little boy?”

“I don’t know. I swear I don’t. If I’d known that one was fake I’d-” but there was a note of triumph in his shaking voice. _01:35._

Dalton narrowed his eyes. “Would you? Or did you bring me this fake one hoping I’d be fooled. Hoping to get your precious Dean back without betraying daddy?”

“I didn’t know,” Sam insisted. “I don’t care about some stupid box, I just want my brother.”

“Well, this is what I’m going to do Sammy. I’m going to go home, back to Dean. Your daddy has until eight o’clock to call me and meet me with the real box, or the next time you see Dean it will be his trigger finger in an envelope. Do we understand one another?” He turned as if to leave, and Sam couldn’t let him go. He might catch dad and Dean still at the house.

He caught at the man’s sleeve. “Don’t,” he begged.

Dalton brushed him off with a vicious backhand which opened his lip and brought involuntary tears to his eyes. He looked down and sneered. “I see you’re just as weak as your brother.”

Sam hissed like an angry cat and straightened himself as tall as he could, wishing he were as tall as Dean and could loom over Dalton the way he wanted to. “My brother isn’t _weak_ ,” he spat.

Dalton raised a condescending eyebrow, “Oh no? He didn’t look very strong when he was begging me to stop hurting him.”

The bravado drained from Sam, and under the layer of grime, his face whitened. “Dean would _never_ ,” he said, but Dalton could tell that he wasn’t sure, remembering the way his brother had screamed and cried after a few touches from his whip probably. He stepped right up, toe to toe with the youngest Winchester, but what he might have said was lost in a sudden explosive sneeze from Sam. He lurched back, pawing at his face. His furious visage darkened as one of his guards failed to restrain a snigger.

“You’ll pay for that,” he snarled, fumbling his own weapon.

Sam drew Dean’s favourite colt and pointed it right at Dalton’s heart. “Try it,” he said, low and deadly. For a long moment, Dalton glared at him, and then a shot rang out. Sam ducked instinctively, but none of the guards had their guns pointed at him. They were watching with slow dawning horror as red dripped almost sedately from the perfectly circular hole in Dalton’s head before he crumbled slowly at the knees and sank, almost gracefully to the ground.

One of the men turned to Sam, “Kid-” he started, sounding shocked and awed and a little sickened.

The rest of his words were lost as a ringing voice called out. “The rest of you, get the hell away from my son.” Sam thought his own knees might have weakened a little so relieved was he to hear his father’s voice.

“You can’t shoot all of us?” the bravest of them called back. “Thought you wanted to find your precious Dean?”

“I’m right here,” said another voice, gravellier than Sam was used to, but recognisable and he couldn’t help but swing around, eyes wide and joyful to see his brother standing beside John. He was listing badly one side, but he was standing, and was holding a shotgun of his own which he smirked down the barrel of. “I’m right here, so yeah, I’d say we can shoot all of you.”

Sam felt a motion behind him and started to turn to combat the new threat when he heard the distinctive sound of a hammer being pulled back. “I really, really wouldn’t try it,” warned John Winchester.

The man who had been making a grab for Sam fell back, and Sam headed back towards his family, angling his body as so not to be between his dad and any shot he might need to make. “You OK Dean?” he hissed as he got nearer. His fingers itched to do a full triage on his brother, but he wouldn’t expose Dean to that, here, with enemies still watching for signs of weakness.

“I’m fine. You?”

“Peachy,” Sam yawned.

John flicked the tiniest of glances at the boys. Sam was leaning tiredly against Dean’s good side, and Dean was using Sam as a buttress to support his own weight, something he’d never do unless he was literally incapable of standing alone. They were propping one another up like a two cards in a card house but they both still had their guns pointed unwaveringly at their assailants, even as Dean’s lidded exhausted gaze flicked down worriedly as Sam masked another chest rattling cough, and Sam slipped a shoulder unobtrusively under Dean’s wrist to give his shaking arm something to lean on. John couldn’t help a warm rush of love wash through him. His boys, _you’d be proud of them Mary_. The smallest of movements snapped his full attention back to the watchful men in front of him. He longed to shoot them as dead as their employer, but he couldn’t. They were human, and he’d seen too many good hunters go bad by dealing out rough justice this way. “You ever come after me or mine again,” he growled, “And you won’t walk away.” He jerked his gun meaningfully at the body of Dalton lying dead on the ground to emphasise his point. “Go.”

They didn’t need telling twice. John forced himself to stand and watch until they were out of site, and then until he heard a distant car engine start. Only then did he allow himself to relax enough to put a gentle hand on the small of Sam’s back to propel him forward, and an equally gentle supporting arm around Dean’s waist. “Let’s put some miles between us and this shithole, OK?”

“Yessir,” muttered Dean.

And not even Sam protested leaving this town in the middle of the night.


End file.
